Wednesday, July 31, 2013


the poet cried upon the page;
in black ink tears he spilled his rage
and from the inkwell's nigh dried pit,
came a funny, a humorous bit.
and grief spewed forth as ink's black stain
on a mission of purge the pain.
so varied is the poet's work,
a nap's escape would let him shirk
his duty. . .that's the writer's quirk 



And play, ye ancient mariner!
play on inside my head!
For long, your rime with death's sublime
albatross breeds dread.

 And play thy rime one more time
of how those sailors died,
and how you wore that great white bird
around your neck with pride

"Water, water everwhere
and not a drop to drink."
Sing thy baleful song again,
and make me stop to think!

 And play, ye ancient mariner!
play on inside my head,
and with each verse, your taint and curse
stain's darker with blood's red!

                         --Monty Wheeler 

Wednesday, July 24, 2013


Onto a windswept grave, he wept,
as if some magic tear
might well give drink unto the ground
and life to who rests there

 for more of same; the hooded one came
and leaned upon his scythe.
 He told the one who cried upon
the grave, "t'was just a tithe"

"The ravages of Father Time
"will one day do for you
"what is to all evenutally,
"that's give to me my due.

"So cry, ye merry gentleman!
"Tears for the grief ye bear,
"yet comes the day, and come what may
"I'll find you anywhere."

                        --Monty Wheeler


I am the poet's lowly pen
and who's to know where all I've been.
 If you'd but ask the poet tell,
by ball and ink, my task will swell
until the sweat of poet's palm
is wiped on me and left him calm

                          --Monty Wheeler

Tuesday, July 2, 2013


Walk gentle under cobalt skies of night
As July’s stars caress, and moon’s soft kiss
Lay bare two hearts that ne’er shall want to miss
God’s angels bound for Heaven’s Gate in flight.

Lay gentle down in verdant fields of green,
And while the dim, soft light of Kissing Moon
Hides not the scents, it leaves sweet hues unseen;
Hold my hand, for dawn comes all too soon.

Caressed by cobalt skies of night’s undress,
We’ll whisper like two children hiding here,
While angels sing off key but just to us,
And ere I’ll watch for you to shed one tear.

Rage, rage against the coming of the dawn;
This moment burns with July’s rising sun.

                                    --Monty Wheeler


Make merry night, ye gentlemen,
for demons spawn in night's soft den,
and wise the foolish man who's lies
keep secrets of his own demise.
for walks the imp upon this land
to quench blood thirst by its own hand.

                                 --Monty Wheeler

Monday, July 1, 2013


come tell me, sir, what ye'd infer
by how she smiles at me
and share your thought of rose I brought
to beg her sympathy

and while we talk; tis ere I balk;
I'm shy to women folk,
but tell me, sir, what ye'd infer.
her smile is but a joke?

please tell me, sir, what ye'd infer
of woman's wily guiles,
of why I'm weak'o kneed each time
she flashes those big smiles.

I'm not the matrimony type,
but hunger for her look.
oh, tell me, sir what ye'd infer;
there's naught in any book.

and tell me, sir, what ye'd infer;
she's smiling at me now.
I fear I must be going, sir;
her smiles scare me somehow.

                   --Monty Wheeler